Learning to Swim
by ink and ashes
Summary: [novelization] It is in his darkest hour that a man must show what he is made of . . . but, of course, that doesn't mean he can't make a few detours and side trips along the way. [rating subject to change]


**LEARNING TO SWIM**  
slippery//ch.000  
_I met her along the way._

His hands were getting sweaty in his worn, leather gloves.

The mid-noon sun shone brilliantly overhead, burning happily at the back of his neck. Being of fair complexion, it was a nuisance, as he would get sunburn something _awful_ by evening. Some distance away, the sailors aboard the ship randomly walked by, one guffawing at something the other one said; _they_ certainly weren't cursing at the burning sun, their skin a dark tan due to their days manning the decks. A snippet of conversation sailed into his ears and he winced: "And so I tells the lass not ter tempt a man like meself; but she wouldn't listen. _That's_ why she has them marks on her back—had her screaming me name ter high Heaven on tha' floor, I did."

Having traveled as long as he had, he was no stranger to this type of talk—sailors were notoriously crude—but it never failed to bother him. He'd never been interested in _that_ particular subject—perhaps because he was too occupied to listen to his hormones—but maybe that was just _him_. He wasn't even sure if he was capable of such things.

Aside from the wandering crewmen and the occasional passenger, it was quiet. A rebellious breeze fluttered through the few strands of hair that escaped his hat, his eyes closing in the soothing wind. He inhaled the scent of the sea and felt the gravity of all the thousands of pounds of water that sloshed and waved beneath the wooden ship. Were it not for the loneliness that gnawed at him from every angle, he may have enjoyed the moment—may have loved the beauty of the sun shining on the ocean's surface, the gentle rock of the passenger ship as it sailed through the open sea.

"It's hot as _Hell_ out here!"

He jerked into consciousness, unaware he had drifted off. The silence of the moment was broken, and he wasn't as regretful as he thought he'd be; the constant brooding sadness was starting to weigh on his shoulders, and it was hard to keep them straight anymore. Lately, he didn't even bother.

"Oh . . . hey, sorry—didn't notice you there." He twisted to look at her over his shoulder, struggling to lift the dismal cloud of gloom that would forever bind him still. "Mind if I sit down?" She sat down anyway, not bothering to hear his answer. He probably wasn't going to give one, though it was not out of rudeness.

The first, startling fact he noticed about her was the screaming red hair. Though he'd been sheltered for most of his conscious life, the past few years had shown him numerous obstacles and a million different faces—it was a habit of memorizing every face he met, but oft-times, he'd purposefully let them fade into some nameless blur in the back of his mind. There was only one face—one memory—he wanted. Only one person he wanted to see . . . but he had a feeling he couldn't forget this one if he tried.

"What'cha lookin' at, Grumpy?" Another surprise—her eyes were red.

He coughed, sputtering a bit. "E-excuse me; pardon my rudeness in staring." With more effort than was needed, he wrenched his eyes away to the horizon, hoping they'd reach port soon. He was getting anxious again—restless. _Wine_, he thought in spite of himself. He'd only ever seen wine once, and it was the only swirling color he could think of that would match the depth in her eyes. He didn't know her—but he'd never met anyone with red eyes before. He _wanted_ to know her, he found, and thought that maybe his loneliness was beginning to get to him.

"Yeah, well—just don't get any ideas. I'll beat you bloody if you even _think_ of touching me."

He frowned at the nasty look she sent him; after that first statement, he couldn't help but look at her again. What had he done to make her think he'd force himself on her? He couldn't even raise his voice in the presence of a female, let alone hurt one. His time with Claire had easily instilled those manners in him. "I assure you, I had no intention of such." _Irrational,_ he thought angrily, his frown slowly turning into a scowl. He did not appreciate being accused of such horrendous things.

One of the legs that had been dangling over the side of the ship came up, the knee bending to let the heel rest on the deck. "Tryin' t' say I'm ugly now?" She looked genuinely offended.

And he wanted to throw something. Brow furrowing, he shook his head. "I never said that."

She glared. "Then what _are_ you trying to say?"

What _did_ he mean to say? He wasn't even sure anymore. Just how in the world did he get into situations like these? "I . . . er . . . good afternoon?" Dear God, when was this ship reaching port?

There was a moment in which time stopped; the expression on her face was some strange mix between curiosity and confusion. Then smiled. It was beautiful. He found he couldn't keep eye-contact and looked away towards the bright horizon—it was days like these that reminded him of all he'd seen and lost. Of his promise. Next to him, he sensed her shift—she wasn't looking at him anymore. "You're weird," she stated, but there was laughter in her voice. He half-expected another dizzying bout of verbal lashes, but there was none. "Good afternoon," she added quietly, and then there was only silence left upon which to enjoy.

"_You make me weak, and I hate it. Why do you do this to me?"_  
"_It's called love, my sweet. You should look into it—I hear it's fun."_  
"_Stop being such a smart ass."_

The next morning, he roused groggily before dawn, vague remnants of forgotten dreams still lingering like morning's dew on a withering blade of grass. He felt heavy and lethargic. "Morning," he rasped out of habit, unable to catch himself—as he was unable to do so many times before, since the recipient was no longer able to hear him. Again—as always—that gnawing sadness made his heart constrict painfully; it was always the same. He began to resent those few, brief moments in his bleary wakings when he forgot.

"_Hard to starboard—HARD TO STARBOARD!_" What felt like a stampede of footfalls thundered the wood above his cabin, and he almost fell out of his modest beddings. _Something must have happened._ Dressing hurriedly, he rushed topside to see what the commotion was about—never had he seen so many of the ship's crewmen so frazzled.

"The guy up at the crow's nest spotted a reef," came the disembodied voice of a girl. It was very familiar. Turning, he saw the red-headed girl from the previous afternoon lounging precariously against the ship's rails. She was smirking. "He called it 'Razor's Edge', so I don't think it's a good idea to sail _over_ it." She seemed to preen at the fact that she knew what was going on and he did not.

"How did you know?" he questioned.

"I beat the guy until he told me why the stupid sailors woke me up from my beauty sleep. Those bastards are too damn loud." She yawned for effect.

"Oh." What did someone say to that? "Damn, you're violent"? Not bloody likely—she'd probably just prove him right. Somehow, it seemed like something she'd do. "But I didn't think the sea level would be so shallow." It might mean they were near the docks, which was a good thing . . . provided they avoided this reef she spoke of. Glancing at her, he frowned. "I think you should come away from the edge," he cautioned. In fact, they shouldn't even be on deck right now—they should probably return to their cabins.

She rolled her eyes. "Pfft. What could happen?"

Calamity. The ship lurched angrily, as if aggressively dismissing her words. He toppled ingloriously onto the wooden floor, his balance completely thrown, and he struggled to regain his footing. Somewhere in the back of his mind—amidst the roared commands of the captain and the sloshing boat—he heard a startled cry, but try as he might to stay afoot, he fell once again. He'd left his hat in his cabin—something he'd _never_ done before—but it seemed more a gift than a curse. With his balance gone awry, he might have gotten his precious possession lost. _It's dark out_, he remembered, with the sun barely peeking its lazy eyes in the horizon; in retrospect, it should have been enough light for him to see the tangled wave of red falling, but he hadn't expected it.

"_MAN—_er, er_—WOMAN OVERBOARD!_"

Oh no. _I _told_ her to come away from the edge! _Without a moment's hesitation, he scrambled across the deck and jumped. _Please let her be alright._ He didn't know her—had met her once for all of two minutes without even producing a name on either of their parts—but it didn't matter. She was a human girl that smiled and had long, long red hair unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

She didn't deserve to die. No one deserved to die.

"Oh, for the love of—_MAN OVERBOARD!_"

Cold. Everything was cold. In an instant, he felt half of his appendages numb. Surfacing—and remembering that they were near a reef—he frantically looked around for any sign of red. It was the only color he had to associate her with; red hair, red eyes, red leggings, red cheeks, red _anything_. Red in a sea of blue, and the inky blackness that awaited the fallen girl should he fail. When he found none, he panicked and dove under, pushing his muscles to work—_God_, was it cold. _What am I doing?_

There! He saw her sinking just a few feet in front of him. Red and purple and not moving an inch—like a piece of cloth slowly falling to its death. With renewed vigor, he made a mad dash for the unmoving female, a small sigh of relief escaping him when he reached her. She was deadweight made almost weightless in the clawing fingers of the ocean; that she didn't try to hold on worried him, but if they stayed underwater nothing could be done. She needed air. Once more, he broke surface, trying to keep her from bobbing over and under the water as much as possible—the less sea water she'd ingested, the better.

Several yards away, he saw the ship turning almost impossibly, doubling back for the two waterlogged passengers. His heart was hammering in his chest, thumping against its cage of flesh and bone—the girl would be alright if they were rescued quick enough. _I don't even know you, lady,__but. . . _"I told you," he couldn't help but say, coughing out water and spittle to keep the oxygen in his lungs.

When the crewmen finally pulled them from the cold, cold waves, the girl sputtered and coughed, kicking viciously and vomiting whatever portion of the sea she'd swallowed. He merely sat up, letting the feeling return to his frozen extremities. _I'm never doing anything like that again._ His vision blurred, spun, and stilled entirely too quickly for his stomach's liking—what felt like seconds (or a century, he couldn't figure out which) seemed to have aged him more than a decade. He felt a hearty pat on the back and looked up to meet the relieved eyes of the ship's captain. "Yer a lucky one, lad; we thought ye were as good as dead."

Hastily, he reached up with his wet hand, making sure his soaked hair covered his birth-defect. "Luckily," he said with gratitude, "we're not. Thank you."

The captain shook his head. "Nay; it's yerself ye should be thankin'. Yer lungs must be hearty indeed—ye hadn't surfaced fer almost twenty minutes." He nodded towards the gasping red-head. "She owes ye her life, she does." The man smiled and walked away—but he hadn't listened to the second half of the captain's words. _Twenty minutes? No way—he must be exaggerating. _ Now that he thought about it, it was stupid of him to have jumped into the sea; he hadn't swum a day in his life.

But he hadn't had the time to think. It was one of the few times in his life he had not thought before he leapt—but if he had, the short lady a few feet away (who was half-delirious and cursing about pumpkins, by the way) would have drowned and the boat would be short one passenger. And the world would be short one less smile. No. He'd think of it no more. Everyone was safe, and once they reached port, he could continue his search.

_Claire. . ._

**end//ch.000**

**NOTE//author.babbles// ** It's been a while. I'm rusty, and I know it. The only ship/pirate language I know is from the movie "Pirates of the Caribbean", of which I am the biggest fan(atic?). I had this beta-read by the awesome** DR. CASEY,** who said it wasn't _that _horrible. Haha, see ya next chapter.


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